The estate of the van Croix was swarming with people in fine gowns and elegant suits.
Giant braziers of colored fires lit the grounds, as the younger children ran across the lush grass with little sparklers. Musicians lined the long driveway, singing and playing to the arriving guests. Performers on stilts waved and danced.
Their home was palatial, though most of it housed solariums and greenhouses. Ivy climbed up the stone facade. Their grounds felt wild, green, and otherworldly. With the party, it was a carnival of colours, foods, and performers.
The van Croix family were the leaders in agriculture that was not meant for food. Though, they did still favor herbs keen to overgrowth and gourds; and whatever could be distilled. Giant plants hung from the ceiling and down the walls. Lining most of their house, were long stretches of planters filled with mint and rosemary, and other such botanic fragrances. It made the house smell wonderfully.
To celebrate the end of the summer harvest, their festival brought all the Vista families together. The Van de Veldes were the agriculture family, but since most of their property were gardens, fields, vineyards, orchards, and the like, the van Croix estate offered theirs, with the understanding that the food would be from the Van de Veldes.
In fact, all the Count families supplied parts for the party. The Zeisls brought with them their best fish and oysters; The Gleesons supplied the pork; the Dorrians the other meats. The only Viscount family to provide directly to the party were the Smirnovs.
When the Smirnov family joined the city a few generations ago, they brought with them the ice shipments from the north. Their own proclivity to ice-related powers, meant that a whole host of new things bedazzled the Vista.
So, with the end of summer, came the end of their ice barges. This, too, became the final hurrah for those dignitaries from the north before they were iced in. For once the snow and ice settled, either you were home, or you were trapped out of it for five months. It was a lesson that was drilled into Pastel City’s Ambassador: Arseniji Petrović; and again, when he lingered too long and was the humble and embarrassed guest of the Smirnovs.
Ophelia arrived alone. She and Goldie had shared a carriage, but Goldie’s evening plans took her to a far less reputable house. Ophelia alone had the title, and it was her ticket to attend.
“You’ll be fine, darling,” Goldie said as Ophelia was helped out of the carriage. “You’ll be breaking hearts.” She winked.
“Not particularly what I’m worried about.” She turned to the darkened figure of Goldie in the carriage.
Goldie leaned forward, so that when she smiled, everyone could see the light glisten off her impeccable golden teeth. “You’ll be grand, Honorable.”
A few of the arriving guests turned to them and whispered. Goldie smirked.
“You’re a pain, you know that?” Ophelia narrowed her eyes.
Goldie reached forward and pulled the door closed. “Oh, what was that? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of the party,” she teased.
Ophelia grumbled and pulled the over-cloak tighter around her as Goldie waved farewell. Ophelia simply shook her head. Though her stomach still grumbled, a hint of a smile lingered on her lips.
A footman held out his hand to her for assistance across the gravel to the main entrance. A giant door illuminated from the inside housed the head of the estate.
Count Thierry van Croix welcomed everyone in. He was a stately man. Tall. Prim. Polite to the point of insincerity. When he spotted Ophelia, he smiled.
“Honorable Ophelia, how wonderful for you to join us.”
She gave a polite nod as she stepped through the doors. A line of their servants acted as a fence to lead the guest to the ballroom, some of them fluttering back and forth to hang cloaks and hats. Ophelia tempered her stomach. She pulled off her over-cloak, handed it to an attendant and moved towards the party’s entrance.
There was no turning back now.
Their great ballroom was made of stained-glass. Massive domes of colors above them still glistened into the night. When the moonlight hit, it made the room look ethereal. A small, but elegant staircase led the guest into the grand party.
Along the one side, a stretched table of various foods, drinks, ice sculptures, and a station for the van Croix’s favorite syllabub. Behind the table, attendants took turns churning a large lever attached to a barrel. Beside them, Smirnov family workers chilled the barrel with a flick and flutter of their fingers. Little snowflakes danced around them.
The Herald bowed ever so slightly to her before he bellowed: “the Honorable Ophelia.”
All at once, the towers of hair and curls, the eyes speckled with colors, and gowns and suits in a kaleidoscope of hues, shifted to her.
She put a hand on the metal railing and descended down the stairs.
“Yeah, that’s her,” someone in the crowd whispered.
“That’s how you do it! A Low-Pale, pulling themselves up to the Vista with nothing but grit and respect!”
Ophelia kept her gaze steady as she stealthily searched for anyone she knew, any friendly face she could greet.
As the walked past the sun-kissed skin and bright-color gowns, the stares of people around her darkened. Someone leaned into their friend and whispered as she walked by. Ophelia didn’t need to hear to know it was about her.
She moved to the table of drinks and took a small glass of something alcoholic. She didn’t bother to read it. The moment it was in her hands, it was already down her throat.
“Honorable Ophelia,” someone called to her. She turned and could have cried in relief. “I’m so glad you could come tonight.”
A tall woman with pink-powdered hair and a singular curl down the side of her neck, beamed at the sight of her. The woman’s makeup was floral and colorful. Her gown was elegant and sparkled. Beaded embroidery glistened and sang when she moved. Her hands reached out and gently held onto Ophelia. Crystalline eyes locked onto her.
Heir-Daughter Aliza van Croix.
“You look beautiful,” Aliza complimented as she stepped back to examine Ophelia’s dress. “The eschelles are lovely.”
“Thank you,” Ophelia replied, though it tasted bitter.
Aliza stepped into Ophelia and wrapped an arm around her. She leaned into her. “Stick with me and let them talk.”
She led Ophelia away from the wine and into the mass of the party. When people turned to gossip about the woman in white and red, the sight of the hostess silenced them.
“Are you doing well?”
Ophelia gave a slight nod. “I am, are you?”
“Harvest this year was a bit off. I think the soil needs to be turned more, but there is nothing to be done about it now. The never-ending woes of plants.”
Ophelia smiled. “My own garden was at war with slugs this year.”
“Mine, too.” Aliza took a drink off a tray a servant brought around the party. “We’ll have to militarize come next year, won’t we? I do hope to count on you, Honorable General.”
The two laughed.
“I’m really glad that you could come, Ophelia.”
“Thank you for inviting me. I don’t get to attend many of these.”
Aliza huffed a little. Her gaze fell a bit into disappointment. “It’s a damn shame. --Ooh,” Aliza perked up. “I have someone to introduce you to. Come with me.”
Her arm wrapped around Ophelia’s and before she could say no, she was whisked away through the crowd.
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